{"id":3048,"date":"2025-02-25T23:17:23","date_gmt":"2025-02-25T23:17:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/?p=3048"},"modified":"2025-02-25T23:17:24","modified_gmt":"2025-02-25T23:17:24","slug":"grief-life-after-the-pain","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/?p=3048","title":{"rendered":"Grief: Life after the pain"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

When his wife, Anna, died of cancer in 2016, therapist Con Healy was thrown into the Pit of Grief. It was not a nice place. He endured dark times … and survived. Grief\/loss changed him<\/strong>. Now in 2025, Con delved into his archive of to review the start of his transformation<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where to now?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"
A PUBLIC DISPLAY OF GRIEVING:<\/strong> Con Healy was thrown into the Pit of Grief when his wife died in 2016.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

By Con Healy<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019ve almost made me redundant, Conal.\u00a0 Those were the words of My Female Psychologist. She was suggesting\u00a0I didn\u2019t really need to come back to therapy. I\u2019d been seeing her for about eight months. And I had responded to therapy. Now, apparently, it was over – I had survived grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How does that make me feel? I asked myself after leaving her office. I stood outside in the bright sunshine, blinking. Am I done? Am I fixed? Am I healed?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How do I feel? It is the classic question I was asked on many occasions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I struggled for days to find words to describe how I actually felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t like I\u2019ve graduated from a university course. And was now standing here with a certificate and a cheesy smile on my face ready for the photo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t like a giant secret has suddenly been revealed to me. And I am standing here, my hands clutched to my mouth trying to catch my breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What’s next?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Female Psychologist had suggested the word \u201cClarity\u201d. I have to agree with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was like I\u2019d got a new pair of spectacles and now realised just how fuzzy the old pair had made my view of the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The metaphor that came to mind is one of those big jigsaw puzzles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For 18 months I had worked on this puzzle. At the start, I picked out the edge pieces and build a frame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And gradually, over time, I had been filling in the pieces. Some parts were hard, others easy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And people would wander in and spend a few hours helping me with the puzzle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But a lot of the time I was working alone, crunched over a large table, in an empty room, with an overhead light for company. Armed with a glass of wine and slices of pizza.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Last month it felt like vital pieces had dropped into place and my perception changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You realise you have to step back and see \u2013 literally and figuratively \u2013 the big picture.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I scratched my head and wondered: \u201cIs that it? Is this the sum total of the past 18 months? Is the pain and suffering really gone? Is it behind me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What was I expecting? The roof of the Sistine Chapel? Or a giant blue foaming wave? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe it was hard because the pieces were upside down, and back to front? Or maybe it was easy because it was really only a 200-piece puzzle and not the 20000 piece that was I were expecting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The obvious suggestion is that this particular puzzle is almost complete and it is time to move on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not quite just yet, there are a few pieces missing. They must have fallen on the floor?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The image of the jigsaw puzzle is facile. It suggests that all the pieces were already there, they just needed to be assembled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t like that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hello to the husk<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back in July 2016 I was the husk of a man. After six months of being Anna\u2019s carer her death left me with a huge hole in my being. I was emotionally and physically drained. A wreck. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mentally I had shrunk \u2013 the man whose clothes no longer fitted him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew Anna didn\u2019t have long after the two brain tumors were discovered (in February 2016). I knew the stats. \u201cTwelve months is being optimistic\u201d the palliative care doctor told me. Six months was more realistic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It would have been easy to have been depressed and maudlin \u2013 knowing the person you were making breakfast for would be dead in a few months. It wasn\u2019t like that. Anna fought and never gave into the idea of dying. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was good news \u2013 the original tumors disappeared. Then bad news \u2013 new tumor had been discovered. We never gave up hope. No matter how misguided that hope was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Right to the very end I believed if anybody could have beaten this cancer \u2013 it was Anna. It was not to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The farewell kiss<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the end of June I was getting a Funeral Haircut. I had touched Anna\u2019s cold body, and kissed her farewell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My life almost came to a grinding halt. For months before I had been nurse, cook, carer, friend, counsellor, taxi driver and a dozen other roles to Anna. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now that was gone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

One morning I stood in a tidy house a few weeks after Anna’s death. All the day\u2019s chores were done. And it was only 9.30am.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember thinking:  What do I do now? How do I fill my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was dumbstruck. It was as though I could hear the wind blowing through what was left of my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The bubble of grief<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, 18 months later, I am asking myself the same question: What do I do now?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And being honest, no matter what My Female Psychologist says, I know there is still a bubble of grief deep in my soul \u2013 all I have to do is find the courage to go look for it and to deal with it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I don\u2019t think I ready for that, just yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who is in control?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In truth, I am not the same person I was 18 months ago. And I am even different from the March 2017 version of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, grief changed me. I was left a husk, as I said before. My battle with Grief Monster has been curious \u2013 there were times when it almost consumed me. There were times when I poked its sleeping form \u2013 just to see how I (and it) would respond. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were times I was frighteningly incandescent with raw emotions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were the days went I\u2019d come home from work, crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My relationship with grief was interesting, to say the least.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some of the time it controlled me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes \u2013 foolishly \u2013 I felt I was controlling it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Other times it was a demonic whirlwind, a storm exploding inside my very being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grief (and a problematic thyroid gland) contributed to my anxiety and depression. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

These in turn created a swarm of demons who would serenade me and bombard me with decaying handfuls of scat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For months the demons were a Greek Chorus \u2013 telling me my life was about to turn to shit and there was nothing I could do about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a long time I believed them \u2013 I was too old. I was too fat. I was ugly.  I was an attention seeking whore.  The demons whispered these poisonous lies into my ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eventually I could no longer stand the screeching cacophony. One morning (at 2am) I sat down the demons and wrote down all the fears and dreads that had been their daily serenades. I nodded and took note of everything they said\u2026 and I went to bed exhausted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning I woke up, expecting the usual dawn chorus of despair from my demons \u2026 but there was nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I went looking for the demons and found their cages. Most were now empty, a few demons remained but appeared in deep hibernation. I slipped quietly over and slid the bolt on the door of these monsters and walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Most of the demons were gone, my mind was still. And the day seemed brighter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Weighing into the problem<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is an Irish saying: \u201cHe\u2019s lost the run of himself\u201d. The Oxford English Dictionary defines that expression: \u201cto lose one\u2019s self-control; to behave in an unexpected or uncharacteristic manner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The German word Kummerspeck<\/em> translates literally to \u201cgrief bacon,\u201d and actually means \u201cthe excess weight gained from sorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the best part of 12 months I lost the run of myself \u2013 I still managed to work, to cook, the keep the house clean and exist. I was eating too much junk food, visiting the bottle shop too many times. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the kilograms piled on. When I got to Ireland in June (for the Dublin funeral for Anna) I was weighing in a 122kgs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I came back from Ireland and my doctor decided my mind was fine, now it was time for me to look after my body. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My annual check revealed I was 40kgs overweight. \u201cYou\u2019ve got to lose 20kgs soon. Or you are facing long-term health problems.\u201d My GP told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The No-Fun Diet started. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Female Psychologist described my relationship with food as \u201cinteresting\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a year of eating and drinking what I wanted, when I wanted, now it was time to pay the price, I told My Female Psychologist.\u00a0 And I was happy to pay the price for my Emotional Eating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By this stage \u2013 July 2017 –  I was learning to let go of my grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We buried half of Anna\u2019s ashes in Dublin in late June, by the end of July we had buried the other half of Anna\u2019s ashes in the cemetery here in Tweed.  It was a small gathering – just family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Anna\u2019s remains in Tweed are in a sealed plastic container, inside a cardboard box inside a sealed hollowed-out rock. When will Anna dissolve into the earth? In about 30,000 years.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Female Psychologist asked me how I felt?\u00a0 I mourned for one-year-and-one-day, several times (for various reasons) I ended up in some very dark places. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were weeks of almost daily panic attacks, episodes of depression, I learned the difference between being lonely and being alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How did I feel now? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Successful, I told the good doctor.  She looked puzzled: \u201cWhy?\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have survived everything thrown at me in the past 18 months. I had a very long To-Do list \u2026 and I\u2019ve just ticked off the last items. That is an achievement\u201d I told her. \u201cAnd I am still alive\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For months (in 2016) I refused to get a haircut. My beard grew out of control. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a Public Display of my Grief, I told myself. (Last week I looked at the selfies from Christmas 2016 and wondered how I thought such behavior was acceptable.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I went about my day \u2013 work, cook, clean (repeat) \u2013 the research about grief was present in my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Following suite?<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The serious side of surviving the loss of a loved one is Complicated Grief \u2013 where you never let go, or move on. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The real risk with Complicated Grief is suicide. A few people approached me at the time they were concerned that I would \u201cfollow Anna into the grave\u201d. I quickly put their minds at rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At no point did I ever consider ending my life – that was never an alternative. Once I made that decision \u2013 and it wasn\u2019t hard \u2013 I started to rebuild myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Being taken apart<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was November 2016.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I deconstructed myself \u2013 broke down aspects of my being \u2013  examined each part, saw how they fitted together with the other elements \u2026 gave it a good dusting, maybe a long soak in Napisan, and put them back – ready to be re-assembled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One of the good things to come out of this exercise was a determination to embrace change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To explore new tastes and experiences, to let go of the old behaviors and thought patterns, to grow and rebuild. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And not to be shackled to the past. Anna\u2019s death did hurt but it made me appreciate life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one sentence, it was simply: \u201cThat was then, this is now\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In November 2016, in the depths of my grief, I decided 2017 would be a year of travel. A time of running away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew I was going to Ireland in June 2017, to bury Anna\u2019s ashes, but I decided I wanted to visit new places \u2013 where Anna and I hadn\u2019t been together. To do new things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The words of my GP rang in my ears: \u201cIs it loneliness? Or freedom?\u201d If I wanted to go somewhere \u2013 I didn\u2019t have to consult anybody, I didn\u2019t have to allow for school holidays, uni exams, malaise or \u2026 a dozen other considerations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It started with small things \u2013 I forced myself to go to the movies, alone. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t mind that. Go to an art gallery by myself. Yep. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Catch up with friends for a long breakfast at the weekend? That became a regular thing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I started to throw out clothes I knew I\u2019d never wear again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d set myself goals; Could I have a conversation with somebody and NOT mention Anna\u2019s death and her final months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a long time \u2013 mainly during the year-and-one-day grieving period \u2013 I felt the need\/desire\/want to tell of Anna\u2019s courage, determination and her bloody mindedness. And \u2013 of course \u2013 there were so many good stories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Short conversations I could manage, longer conversations were tougher. For the previous three years a large portion of my life revolved around Anna and her Cancer Journey (God, I how hate the word, journey). And I had little else to talk about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Non-Talking of Anna was hard \u2013 that took until October 2017 to master that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(My Female Psychologist asked me one session why didn\u2019t I leave Anna when she was sick? I can recall my horror when she asked me that. My reply: \u201cBecause you don\u2019t do that. You don\u2019t give up on your best friend. \u201cWe married for better and for worst. Anna never gave up \u2013 and you\u2019ve got to love, respect and support that kind of spirit. You can\u2019t ask for more than that. You can\u2019t leave somebody when they need you the most.\u201d \u00a0In essence, I\u2019m not a quitter.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Female Psychologist maintained marriage was a partnership where \u2013 ideally \u2013 the needs of the partner were being met on a 50-50 basis. Sometimes that doesn\u2019t always happens \u2013 it be 60-40, 70-30,  but it cannot always be one-sided.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My Female Psychologist said Anna and mine marriage ended when Anna gave up meeting my needs and started thinking only of herself. When was that? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

“About 10-15 years ago” I replied honestly. That stung.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen you are continually sacrificing your needs for your partner\u2019s needs it can lead to anxiety issues.\u201d she told me. That stung too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Re-living the past<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rarely did I feel lonely in the past 16 months (since Anna died). Yes, there were many times I was alone \u2013 rarely lonely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I joined several online grief\/depression groups to share and explore my feelings and emotions \u2013 but none of them resonated. \u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grief is dreadfully idiosyncratic \u2013 no two people grieve the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the lead up to Anna\u2019s burial in Ireland I worked on her 300 page scrapbook \u2013 I re-lived those final months. It wasn\u2019t exactly a pleasant experience, but I pushed on. And completed it. (I showed My Female Psychologist a copy of the document \u2013 she was impressed: \u201cI have never seen anything like this\u201d.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Looking back<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four months later I got a chance to revisit those dark days, when I had to file my 2016-17 tax return to the Australian Taxation Office.  There \u2013 in black and white \u2013 on the bank statements was a chronological listing of Anna and mine\u2019s coffee mornings, then the funeral expenses, then the visits to the local bottle shop and all the pizzas I ordered. Finally, for 2016, the gap payments for my first psychiatrist,  My Male Psychologist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s always fun doing a financial review of the worst year of your life.  There were times when I wanted to stop doing the tax return, because it was too painful, and run away to the beach,  or open a bottle of wine and watch TV or do anything else \u2026 but I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I got up, made a cup of tea, and came back to the collection of statements and receipts \u2026 and kept going. I did that three or four times, usually with tears in my eyes. (12 months earlier I would have run away \u2013 and did, to Brisbane \u2013 rather than deal with the problem.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I finished the tax return I grabbed a bottle of cold water \u2026 and went for a six kilometre walk by the ocean, to clear my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bank statements for 2017 revealed my travelling expenses. In the past 12 months I\u2019ve visited (for many  and varying reasons) Sydney twice, Melbourne twice (more on the later), Dublin twice, Brisbane (a few times), Mt Tamborine (a few times) as well as Hitchin, London and Winchester, in England.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kept a travel diary and \u2013 for fun \u2013 listed the number of different beds I slept in one year. The list hit 20 just after Christmas. That means that nearly twice a month I was escaping my home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wherever I went I took my camera and snapped away. At last count, I took 36,000 photos in 2017.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Maybe I was running away? I tell myself I was creating new memories, new experiences \u2026 putting distance between me and Anna\u2019s death. And I was. The last thing I wanted to do was stare at the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I travelled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Back in the pit<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It started when I woke up in Brisbane on New Year\u2019s Day 2017 \u2013 having kicked 2016 out the door the previous night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To Sydney in February – because of a woman \u2013 to experience the hottest weekend (weatherwise) in Sydney\u2019s history – 33d at 3am. The intense online relationship with this woman climaxed that weekend \u2026 and ended (by text) two weeks later. One week I was on Cloud Nine, the next week I was deep in the pit of despair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Matters were compounded by my problematic thyroid gland which decided that should suffer daily panic attacks, heat flushes, heart palpitations, uncontrollable crying \u2026 and experience \u2018being hormonal\u2019. It certainly gave me a new insight into what women go through on a monthly basis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Luckily it was discovered my problems lay with the medicine I was taking for my problematic thyroid gland. Once I stopped those meds, my mind and body returned to its usual \u201cFucked in the Head\u201d normality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The visit to the Despair Pit made me realise just how brittle my mind was. And how resilient I needed to become. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew no matter how much help, love and support I got from family and friends (and there was lots \u2013 thanks) \u2026 it was up to me to walk that long Recovery Road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was hard at the beginning, some days the Despair Pit would send out tendrils which would grab at my legs and haul me back to the dark emotional quagmire. I did struggle free and set about putting my life in order. This was the time of the Screeching Demons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I learned to appreciate all I had (loving family and friends, a house, a job, good health etc) and not long for what I didn\u2019t have (a sex life, joy, intimacy etc etc ).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What could I do? So began my Low Expectations lifestyle. I would have to be the person to make me happy. So I came up with the idea of Steps to Happiness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I woke up in the morning \u2013 \u201cHey, I\u2019m alive\u201d (step one). \u201cLook, I\u2019m in a comfortable bed!\u201d (step two). \u201cI\u2019m warm\u201d (step three). \u201cThere are clothes to wear, clean ones too\u201d (step four).  By the time I got downstairs, and had that glorious first cuppa of the day \u2026 well, I was three-quarters way to Happiness. In fact that first cup of tea usually brought a smile to my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(There was a story I heard from an older man: \u201cI know I\u2019m in for a good day when there isn\u2019t somebody standing over me shouting \u2018CLEAR!\u2019 \u201d )<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t expect anything from life \u2013 and wasn\u2019t disappointed. The tears were gone, the panic attacks disappeared and my life was spluttering along \u2026 in the slow lane. But at least it was moving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the mend<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Melbourne in March 2017 was fun. A real break from the darkness that had been my life of the previous eight months. I flew south for three nights. I\u2019d never been to Melbourne and quickly fell in love with the city. I rode the trams, visited art galleries, ate out, dropped into a late-night comedy club, drank ales and laughed. And had a thoroughly good time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a day of walking my body wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. But my inner voice refused to let me lie down and to be cowed by the fear of a new, and unknown city. So I got up and went out and enjoyed myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From my viewpoint of today (January 2018), I can pin-point the day everything started to change, March 24 \u2013 I walked 23,110 steps around Melbourne in one day. (The day before it was 22,500 steps). And it felt good. (Usually I\u2019d take 3000 steps a day.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 My heart and mind were still in turmoil, on that fateful day I can remember walking into a graffiti-strewn alley in the Melbourne CBD and made a huge discovery. It was street art.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was an explosion of colour and movement. Chaos meets art.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was when my heart and soul went “Wow” – their turmoil had found form.  Had found expression.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I think I might have mentioned before, I suddenly felt calm, collected and – strangely – at home. It was the start of The Recovery. That rebuilding of my mind continued for eight months and finally coalesced about 12 weeks ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"
What do you do when your world is shattered?<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Making the changes<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

October 2017 was a big month for me. I was in Sydney and had my first First Date since 1978. The date went well, we both had a great time.  Long story short? No chemistry between us \u2013 nothing romantic happened. We are still good friends and still keep in contact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The weekend in Sydney galvanized me. A series of small, almost unrelated events, sent an electrical jolt through my mind. All the pieces of my psyche that I had deconstructed 12 months earlier \u2026 began to come together. And began to click together. It was like a lightning bolt had hit a jumble of seemingly random machine parts and they all molded together \u2026 and turned into a new car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On that Sunday morning in Sydney, I woke in an empty hotel room and knew \u2013 really knew \u2013 that could handle my future: \u201cI can do this! I can really do this!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that was the moment that Dark Conal faded away and Confident Conal stepped forward into the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I returned to home in the Tweed a different man, inside.  I learned to meditate and took up yoga. And I started doing almost-daily six\/seven kilometre walks by the ocean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I started to watch what I was eating \u2013 and lost 10kgs and dropped four pant sizes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

ConCon \u2013 as somebody called \u2013 got a test run a few weeks later with a return to Melbourne.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I walked the back alleys of Melbourne in late October 2017 it was with a different mindset to my trip in March. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is with a quieter mind. A less chaotic view point. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time I wandered, looking for good street art. And it was different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My eyes saw the colours and the chaos. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My heart and soul? None of it resonated. It was as though they had got together and said: “Nice, but… We have moved on. That was then. This is now.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And it is true. I am a different person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A stronger version of the March Me.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the time eight months between the two Melbourne visits, I had changed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I feel I have grown in this new Me. And I am happy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And yes, I can tackle my future \u2013 I am feeling positive about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

2018 is shaping up to be good year \u2013 or at least not as shitty as 2016-17.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was then, this is now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As a wise woman told me recently: \u201cLook to the future, not at the past\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(Written in 2018<\/strong>)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Con Healy in 2020: <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
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Are you enduring grief\/loss? Need to talk? Contact: Con Healy on 0438 559 515.<\/a><\/div>\n\n\n\n
Email: wisdomwithwhiskers@gmail.com<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When his wife, Anna, died of cancer in 2016, therapist Con Healy was thrown into the Pit of Grief. It was not a nice place. He endured dark times … and survived. Grief\/loss changed him. Now in 2025, Con delved into his archive of to review the start of his transformation.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":395,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[196,172,144,205,129,216,4,82,1],"tags":[10,46,11,19,9,16,15,41],"class_list":{"0":"post-3048","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-anxiety","8":"category-dark-days","9":"category-depression","10":"category-living","11":"category-loneliness","12":"category-loss","13":"category-my-story","14":"category-relationship","15":"category-uncategorized","16":"tag-cancer","17":"tag-depression","18":"tag-grief","19":"tag-listen","20":"tag-mental-health","21":"tag-pain","22":"tag-recovery","23":"tag-tears"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3048","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3048"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3048\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3066,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3048\/revisions\/3066"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/395"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3048"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3048"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wisdomwithwhiskers.com.au\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3048"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}